


ДЕЛАЙ

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Breast Fucking, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Thorin recovers from the battle of the five armies, Bilbo has to get creative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ДЕЛАЙ

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rutobuka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/gifts).



> A/N: This is inspired by/based on [this pic](https://38.media.tumblr.com/79d2905a2693d01c0256e7c2e3aa9f85/tumblr_nhf49oaYGV1tduj7qo2_1280.jpg) by [the gorgeous Rutobuka](http://nastyrutobuka.tumblr.com/post/106651544240/yea-so-ive-drawn-these-three-bilbo-thorin). <3
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The worst part of the aftermath, once all is said and done, is the injuries left over. They don’t hurt anymore—not after those infernal elves had a look at him and Óin did his work and it’s been so many days—but it’s enough to keep Thorin in bed. Durins are never meant to be bedridden. The throne of Erebor is finally his to claim, his kingdom on the way to mending, and he _can’t even get out of bed_ , and he’s told likely won’t be able to for at least another week.

Everyone comes to visit him, of course. He’s even had council meetings with Bard and the Elf King—begrudging as they were—and Fíli and Kíli only leave his side when Bilbo shoos them out so he can rest. 

Bilbo, bless his heart, hasn’t left at all. He stays with Thorin day and night, brings Thorin food and mends Thorin’s bandages, deals with the unpleasant tasks and wipes Thorin’s brow when the fevers take him. When Thorin first woke up from his wounds, he feared he’d never see his lover again—he threw it all away in the height of dragon sickness, caused more pain than he can ever heal. But Bilbo is too kind. He says he forgives his friend, his lover, his king. He kisses Thorin’s lips the same as ever, eyes more full of adoration than Thorin ever deserved. 

And that’s part of what he misses the most. He can hardly move, which makes it impossible to claim his little hobbit with the thrill of victory. Even though Bilbo is cute and sweet and _perfect_ as ever, smelling ripe and wanton and too alluring, Thorin can only watch him bustle about the room. Thorin’s trapped in an impotent body, and temporary or not, it’s frustrating. As Bilbo clears the empty dishes away from the bedside table in Thorin’s chambers of the mighty mountain, Thorin lets out a heavy sigh. 

Bilbo glances down at him, and Thorin grumbles, “When the day comes again that I can take you, Bilbo Baggins, we will have to warn the whole mountain not to interrupt us for at least two days.”

Bilbo smiles with a hint of laughter, as though Thorin is joking, when in fact he isn’t. Shaking his pretty head, Bilbo leans down over the bed, brushes back the dark strands from Thorin’s sweaty forehead, and gives him a firm, lingering kiss. 

“You’ll have me again soon enough,” Bilbo promises as he pulls away, back to placing smaller dishes on top of larger ones. Thorin would grab him and pull him closer for a _proper_ kiss—full on tongue and teeth—but that would only make the wait even harder. He’s tried to usher Bilbo into climbing onto his lap before, but Bilbo will do nothing to put a strain on Thorin’s hips or legs. Perhaps it’s for the best, as he wants to run and fight again, but the meantime is maddening. 

Bilbo picks up the largest tray, all the other dishes stacked atop it, and then pauses suddenly. Thorin looks up to see him frowning, staring vaguely into the distance. 

Thorin asks, “What is it?” And Bilbo turns immediately red, startling.

He hurriedly chirps, “Nothing!” Which can only mean the opposite. 

He turns to leave, but Thorin thrusts out an arm: a limb he _can_ use. He’s still got enough muscle, thick and long enough, that it effectively holds Bilbo back. It’s obvious that Thorin won’t take no for an answer—not when he’s so starved for interesting words, having no actions, stuck in bed—and Bilbo fidgets awkwardly, before blurting, “Oh, it was a silly idea.”

Without hesitation, Thorin insists, “I want to hear it.”

Bilbo’s mouth twists. It’s that look he gets when Thorin wants him to do something a _proper_ hobbit would never imagine, even though Bilbo’s already farther from the Shire hobbits than probably any other hobbit alive. 

But he does explain it, even as he turns steadily redder. “Well, it’s just that... it’s a terrible idea, really, but you did ask... it’s only that _my_... my bits work just fine. And maybe we can’t... not with your... but your chest is still alright, and you have such a broad chest, and such strong... don’t make me say it.” Bilbo trails off, only to look bluntly at Thorin as though it’s both perfectly obvious and incredibly shameful. 

Thorin takes a minute to realize, “You want to fuck my chest?”

Bilbo looks horror-stricken at the blunt words but tight-lipped in agreement. Then he blathers, “It’s just a thought.”

Thorin says nothing, trying to think despite his blank mind, and Bilbo abruptly turns to leave again. “Never mind, forget I said anything! We can simply wait, or I can take you in my mouth if you must have some, but you’d have to promise to keep your hips still—”

Bilbo’s only a few steps away from the bed when Thorin says, “Strip.”

Bilbo stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder to squeak, “What?”

“Put those dishes down,” Thorin says calmly, “and strip.”

Bilbo opens his mouth. He always has a funny way of showing interest in odd things only to shame himself and deny them, and ask, in a roundabout way, for a push out the proverbial door. 

Knowing this, Thorin adds quietly, “It’s an order from your king. Do it.”

Thorin isn’t _really_ Bilbo’s king, of course. And Bilbo knows perfectly well that he’s under no obligation to obey any of Thorin’s orders. But the words seem to help him decide, and he finally comes back to set the dishes back down on the nightstand. 

A shudder runs through him, then a sheepish smile. But his little fingers set to work, first thumbing his suspenders over his shoulders, then tugging his cotton shirt over his head. He folds it neatly up before he squirms out of his trousers, the usual mix of eager and embarrassed. They’ve seen each other naked more times than Thorin can count, but every time still gives him that spark of lust, that fierce thrill: Bilbo only grows more beautiful with each passing day. Perhaps it’s because Bilbo’s growing stronger, and although he’s always a little self-conscious of the hobbit ways he left behind, he no longer looks ashamed of his body. He’s heard enough times how much Thorin loves it, every part of it. He folds his clothes and tucks them around beside the dishes, and then takes a deep breath and climbs up onto the bed.

Thorin’s already naked. He’s always in bed anyway, and it’s easier to wash him and change him without fabric in the way. Besides, most dwarves sleep nude, for quick access to the things they usually enjoy, like each other.

Granted, he’d never thought of doing this before. It’s a strange idea, but he can see that his strange hobbit wants it. And he wants anything that makes his Bilbo smile, especially when it means naked and atop Thorin’s body.

Now that he’s started, Bilbo seems to know what to do on his own. He lifts a leg to throw over Thorin’s stomach, and he carefully takes a seat across Thorin’s body, looking back to shoo his bum away from the blankets. He insists as he squirms into place, “You’ll tell me if I’m too heavy or if I hurt you, won’t you?” Thorin nods, even though Bilbo’s already heavy but certainly lighter than any dwarf, and Thorin’s a warrior. He was built to wear armour twice this weight. He lifts his arms to curl around Bilbo’s thighs, pulling Bilbo up. Having Bilbo straddle him is a good way to start any situation, strange or otherwise. 

Reaching forward, Bilbo takes hold of the headboard. He looks down at Thorin, already hazy-eyed and wanting, and then he bucks his hips once, experimentally drawing his stout cock up Thorin’s chest. It slides, pink and raw, between Thorin’s pecs, the mushroom head pushing through dark bristles. It’s already a little stiff, hardening quickly. Bilbo takes a puff of breath, draws back and rolls his hips again, watching how his shaft slips through the natural groove in Thorin’s body. Thorin has to strain to see it. The little slit in the tip of Bilbo’s cock doesn’t take long to shimmer with a bead of interest, growing each time it thrusts towards Thorin’s chin. It feels odd to have their skin sliding together dry, but Thorin’s always wearing a thin sheen of sweat from his sickness, and that keeps it from being truly uncomfortable. Even if it were, it would probably be worth it to have Bilbo squirming atop him again, bare and beautiful as Bilbo is, silhouetted in the firelight from the hearth across the room. Bilbo works himself in a smooth, shallow rhythm, panting lightly with each stroke. 

Thorin wants _more_ , and he draws his hands to the side of his chest, squishing against his taut muscles. It forces his flesh up around Bilbo’s cock, bulging against the sides, squeezing at him. It isn’t as consuming as full instead of flat breasts might be, but Thorin’s pecs are developed enough to still catch at Bilbo’s sides. Bilbo mewls at the sudden pressure, his cock twitching in delight. He brings one hand to his mouth, like he so often does when he’s being loud and _indecent_ , but Thorin growls quietly, “ _Bilbo_ ,” and Bilbo drops his hand. He should know by now that Thorin enjoys hearing those noises. He will have to be trained out of his stifled hobbit upbringing. He smiles and lets out a lewd, unhindered moan that twists in the air, head dropping against his chest while his hips push back into a more staccato rhythm, rubbing insistently along Thorin’s skin. 

Bilbo’s rear is hot against him. He’s all too aware of the tight little hole not far from his crotch. It takes a great effort not to grab Bilbo and shove him down, and perhaps Thorin still would if he had only a fraction more strength in his legs. As it is, he can only enjoy the plush cheeks of Bilbo’s plump ass grinding over the muscles of his stomach. He wants to grab them, grind them _harder_ , but he’s busy holding his breasts together for Bilbo to fuck. Because of the bliss on Bilbo’s fair features, it seems a better use. 

Bilbo shifts his grip on the headboard and drops his hand again, reaching for Thorin’s hair. He runs his fingers lovingly through it, down to Thorin’s shoulder, along his bicep, then smoothes over his chest, down to his nipples, peaked high against Bilbo’s thighs. Finally, he closes around his own shaft, near the base, while his tight balls grind into Thorin’s body below. Bilbo palms himself a few times, then drifts back over Thorin’s bulging muscles and traces up to Thorin’s hand. He wraps his fingers over the back of Thorin’s knuckles, holding on. Thorin’s never had another lover so keen to hold hands during sex, but it fits his little Bilbo oddly well. He knows when Bilbo’s getting close, because Bilbo dips down, pressing their foreheads together and letting out a languid keening noise.

He gives Thorin a quick but firm kiss, then straightens out again, arching up as he gasps and cries out, his cock twitching and bursting a jet of white. It splatters Thorin’s beard, followed by another spurt and then another. Bilbo’s hips continue to rock, his throat continuing to moan and cry. His face is entirely flushed, but his eyes are still open, locked on Thorin’s. His seed bypasses both their hands to paint Thorin’s chin and throat, one string draping just high enough that Thorin can catch it on the end of his tongue. 

Bilbo still humps Thorin’s chest a few times after he’s coming, squirming all the harder and whimpering contentedly. Hobbits are always quickly excitable, or at least, Thorin’s is, but a miniscule refractory period makes up for it. It’s several thrusts before Bilbo stops, panting hard and looking thoroughly debauched. 

After a minute of trying to catch his breath, he mumbles, “Sorry.” Thorin just lifts an eyebrow, but Bilbo’s already slipping off his chest, settling down in the mattress beside him, overtop of the blankets. Thorin lets go of his pecs, his skin cold where Bilbo left him. 

Bilbo leans over him to run a hot tongue along his neck. Thorin shivers, and Bilbo murmurs another apology, muffled around gobs of his own cum scooped into his mouth. He laps away at Thorin’s throat until it’s wet with only spit, then nuzzles into Thorin’s beard and cleans what he can of that, too. It tickles, but Thorin suppresses his laughter. Bilbo is always an interesting mix of erotic and adorable. He pecks Thorin’s lips when he’s done and hovers over Thorin’s face to say, “If you promise to be still, I’ll have you in my mouth when I return.” 

Lifting a pleased eyebrow, Thorin announces, “You have a deal, Master Baggins.” Bilbo grins and kisses him again. 

Then Bilbo’s hurriedly scooping up the dishes and rushing off, his bare bottom twitching witch each movement. Thorin’s eyes are glued to it right until it turns the corner and disappears out of sight.

He’s left with his own hard cock straining against the blankets. He doesn’t dare touch himself, because he wants to save it all for Bilbo’s lips. In some respects, not being able to leap out of this bed and chase his hobbit down to fuck into the floor is pure torture.

But in other ways, the ways that really count, Thorin thinks he might just be the luckiest dwarf alive.


End file.
